


The Dark Half

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Avengers - Freeform, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hopeful Ending, Hydra (Marvel), Insanity, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of Bruce Banner/Tony Stark, Mentions of Future Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Mentions of Past Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rescue, Rough Sex, Spideypool - Freeform, white box - Freeform, yellow boxes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:06:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7867081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadpool is not exactly a good person . . . but then, neither is Venom. And Spider-Man? Well, he’s kind of caught in the middle. Written for this prompt: (http://serenbach86.tumblr.com/post/149373256189/otpdisaster-person-a-being-held-hostage-in-a).</p><p>Inspired by (by which I mean “blatantly ripped off”) Orcusnox’s brilliant fic, “Dehumanize Me”:<br/>(http://archiveofourown.org/works/7771462)</p><p>Notes/Warnings: AU. Kinda dark (no pun intended). Well, dark for <i>me</i>, anyway. TRIGGER WARNINGS for, well, rough sex and dub-con that might actually kinda be non-con. The line is blurry. Um, I’m not entirely up on the Spidey-Venom dynamic like I was when I was a wee ankle-biter. So if anything is glaringly OOC or wrong, please, feel free to let me know/make suggestions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark Half

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orcusnox (Cat9894)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat9894/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dehumanize Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771462) by [Orcusnox (Cat9894)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat9894/pseuds/Orcusnox). 



See, the thing is . . . they’ve had Wade for _weeks_ , now. Maybe _months_. Experimenting on him. Torturing him. Not responding to any of his witty repartee—which, let’s face it, pretty much amounts to the same thing _as_ torture, when it comes to Wade Wilson—and taking notes while frowning down over him.

 

Whatever compounds they’re testing on him, they’re a fucking _wash_ , every time, either through Hydra incompetence—which is Christing _endless_ , depending on the specific cell one is dealing with—or because of Wade’s . . . unique biology.

 

Doesn’t mean the shit they test on him doesn’t hurt like _balls_ as it courses through his veins, occasionally liquefying organs or flat out stopping his fucking heart.

 

(Seriously, Wade’s lost track of the numerous times he’s unalived since they took him, however long ago. He only has a rough idea of the time they’ve had him because the Hydra drones and scientists talk around him like he’s got the brain-power of a baked potato. They’re not _careful_ about the date, time, their purpose, or their location. It’d be funny, if not for all the screaming. Wade _really_ tries hard not to, because it just makes his throat too raw for laughing at his own ignored wit, but sometimes . . . sometimes he just can’t help himself.)

 

At any rate, _hope_ is a luxury Wade’s _never_ been able to afford, yadda-yadda, and he isn’t expecting _anything_ like a rescue or a miracle—though they’re hysterically incautious around Wade, the assholes who have him have apparently covered their tracks well . . . and even if they _hadn’t_ , it’s not like there’s anyone who cares enough about Wade to come looking just because everyone’s favorite reformed mercenary went missing.

 

So, yeah, Wade’s one _wealthy_ motherfucker, but even now, he _still_ can’t afford something like fucking _hope_. _Especially now_.

#

 

Eternity is a _long_ time to spend rotting in a Hydra lab, but Wade’s resigned himself. These dicks are _way_ more careful about keeping him than Weapon X had been—no ridiculously strong women to head-butt as a distraction and steal a match from, alas—so escape isn’t _even_ a fever dream, _despite_ all the fevers Wade gets. He languishes, losing weight, losing _himself_ . . . or hiding himself so far down, even the _Boxes_ can’t reach him, anymore. He retreats so deep, that he stops fucking _talking back_. Stops laughing. Not because the screams have robbed him of his voice, but because for the first time in his life . . . _life_ ceases to be _funny_.

 

Eventually, he stops noticing or responding to . . . _anything_.

 

It’s _all_ luxuries, at this point, not just the unnamed hope he’s been carefully avoiding—has Rid-Xed out of the desolate clump of soil that passes for his heart.

 

All is _silence_ , for Wade. Or might as well be, for all that it matters. For all that he can hold onto anything.

 

And then, the screams start again.

 

At first, Wade simply assumes, without thought, that they’re his, even though he doesn’t feel pain in his body at that moment, except for the usual low-grade ache of his fucking skin. No, for once, even the _screaming_ doesn’t hurt . . . and that’s what prompts his first thought in what seems like millennia:

 

_That’s not me._

 

Wade surfaces . . . not slowly, but like a shot, blinking in the dimness of the lab—he’s the only one in it, now, which is strange, since Hydra _never_ sleeps, like New York City, only marginally meaner—and looking around. The screams continue . . . and they’re the screams of more than one person.

 

 _More than one_ throat is making the music of pain, agony, and death, even though those screams are eerily close together. Wade has his second thought, then:

 

 _Whatever it is, it’s coming in_ my _direction and it’s coming_ fast _. . . killing everything it its path._

 

At this point, Wade still doesn’t feel anything _like hope_. He doesn’t expect a rescue, either. Whatever’s coming it’s bigger, badder, and _eviler_ than fucking _Hydra_ . . . and that’s enough to put the fear into even _Deadpool_.

 

Strapped as he is to a fucking upright slab—like a corpse, which, okay, he’s spent a lot of time actually _being_ , since Hydra got the drop on him—Wade can neither prepare nor defend himself. He is naked in every way that counts, his ruined skin goose-pimpling from actual _fear_ . . . and the _crazy_ central air Hydra labs always seem to have. As if they never get an electric bill, or something.

 

Eyes wide and focused on the single door to the lab—steel, reinforced—Wade struggles reflexively, futilely against the restraints—also steel, also reinforced—clamping him wrist and ankle to the slab.

 

After another half a minute, the screams stop. It’s ominously quiet outside the lab and in it, but for Wade’s accelerated breathing and the rasp of the restraints against his rough skin.

 

Then, the first clanging _thud!_ hits the door, so hard that Wade can feel the impact-shudder from halfway across the room. His struggles, still futile, nonetheless increase. He is beyond hope, but _never_ beyond a fight. His shoulders roll of their own accord and his spine arches, working out the kinks of his long confinement.

 

(Just because he literally _can’t_ fight, doesn’t mean he won’t still give as good as he gets. And if he still ends up dying screaming, like the assholes who captured him, then, well, that’s pretty much how he always dies, _anyway_.)

 

The thudding on the door keeps up for another minute, thuds coming at ragingly uneven and inefficient intervals. Whatever’s out there is not just enraged, but _desperate_. Wade doesn’t know what, if anything, to make of that.

 

Then the thudding stops. But Wade can still sense who or whatever it is lurking restlessly out there. Thinking. Weighing options. For long minutes, he waits for it to either start hitting the door again or leave. He doesn’t know which he fears most.

 

Suddenly, the fingerprint lock on the door beeps its entry tone, the red light on the lock flashing green.

 

Either Wade’s special visitor has access to the lab and is just remembering it, or . . . or it _got_ access from one of the bodies it left in its wake. Wade rather suspects the latter. After all, what’s a little dismemberment between friends?

 

Then the heavy steel door is swinging open and . . . _darkness_ slithers in. It is deep and iridescent.

 

And it has _teeth_.

 

Long and gantry-like, despite some pretty obvious definition—that suit is some kind of spandex or something that leaves nothing to the imagination—it pauses just beyond the open door, (a jaggedly bitten-off hand falling from its own, to the floor) the white eyes or lenses or whatever those things are in its face/mask lock onto Wade.

 

It smiles.

 

 _Fuck_ , does it have _teeth_. Like, for days and days.

 

Then it’s striding unhurriedly, almost seductively across the room, stopping in front of Wade, whose struggles have ceased in shock . . . but not quite fear. Not anymore.

 

Because something about this . . . _thing_ . . . is _very_ familiar. Something in the way it _moves_. The way it _smiles_ , despite those freak-show teeth that are really fucking _fangs_.

 

Something in the way it _tilts its head_ as if it finds him fascinating and curious. As if amusement and fondness—also familiar—are twining with its obvious, predatory glee—decidedly _not_ familiar.

 

That sharp grin parts and it hisses words at Wade in a voice that makes Wade shiver, even as a part of him that’s deeper than instinct recognizes what— _who_ —is in front of him.

 

“ _We have been searching for you for a long time_ ,” is what it says as recognition sweeps through Wade, and all he can think is:

 

 _Sweet_ Odin _. . . what’s_ happened _to him?_

 

Every cell of him yearns toward this living darkness, this . . . walking blight, and he groans, fingers clenching on nothing.

 

“Petey?” he rasps in his broken, unused voice. And: “B-Baby Boy, what’s _happened_ to you? What—”

 

The darkness before him hisses again and this time, it’s not _words_ , just an angry warning to Wade, who falls silent, eyes wide.

 

“ _We are Venom_ ,” it says flatly, sneering, stepping even closer, so that it seems to loom over Wade, who, especially with the benefit of his upright slab, is taller than it. It’s a fight not to shrink back from this thing—from the coldness that leaches off it, like the breeze off a fucking glacier.

 

It licks the gaping maw that is its mouth with a _ridiculous_ -long tongue, regarding Wade with another predatory smile.

 

 _“We are_ Venom,” it says again, as if that _means_ something, and it’s _Petey’s_ voice that’s its speaking with. The harsh, rasping whisper Petey’s voice became that time he’d gotten laryngitis really bad.

 

“Petey . . . _Baby Boy_ ,” Wade begins, despite the fact that the creature’s already warned him that it was _not_ Petey, but _Venom_ , and despite the fact that Petey’s not Wade’s “Baby Boy” . . . not anymore, not for months. Close to a year, now, if one factors in Wade’s long captivity. “What’s, uh, with the new, edgelord look, huh? What—what are you doing here? How’d you _find_ me?”

 

Those white lenses narrow. “ _We are Venom_ ,” it says again. Wade tries on a smile.

 

“Hey, I guess that’s better than _I am Groot_ , amirite?”

 

The creature hisses, but it sounds more like a laugh than a warning or a threat.

 

It raises its hand, which has creepy-long, attenuated fingers that end in points, like talons. That hand and those fingers ghost slowly toward Wade, settling, finally, on the center of his sternum almost gently, never mind the chill radiating from that hand. Never mind the way that touch causes Wade to shudder in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

 

“ _We are Venom_ ,” it says smugly, slyly, amused once more. “ _And you are_ ours.”

 

“Uh . . . wait a minute, pal—I mean, thanks for the assist and for, uh, killing all those fucktards with _extreme_ prejudice, but Wade Wilson don’t belong to _nobody_ but _Wade Wilson_. And possibly Jason Statham.”

 

The creature ignores the joke in favor of running its freak-hand up and down the cancer-ravaged skin of Wade’s malnourished torso . . . as if it was appreciating a finely-textured piece cloth, or something. Shivering, Wade’s eyes fall shut and squinch tight as he struggles for self-control. Of _course_ they do.

 

This is _Petey_ . . . somehow, this thing, this . . . _darkness_ , is _his Petey_. . . .

 

Which makes it a touch that’s impossible to ignore or keep his cool about.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” slips out of him, because it’s been _too_ _long_ since he’s felt any touch that wasn’t clinical and/or disgusted. “Petey, _please_ —”

 

“ _The Spider desired our aid in finding and retrieving you_ ,” the creature— _Venom_ —sighs in that breathless whisper-rasp. “ _And in return, we were promised something_ we _desired, and have from the first_.” Another hiss, this one _very_ close to Wade’s ear. He doesn’t dare open his eyes. Doesn’t want to see that toothy maw so close to his face. “ _We have upheld_ our _end of the bargain . . . the time has come to collect on the Spider’s_.”

 

Something cold and wet slithers its slow, savoring way up Wade’s neck, lingering on his jugular and the pounding of blood in his veins. Then, it’s gone and Wade is left gasping and suddenly _hard_ , his eyes flying open as Venom chuckles in silent chuffs.

 

Then, its crouching to literally rip the clamps off Wade’s ankles, tossing them over its shoulders with twin, distant clinks, hissing to itself and muttering angrily.

 

“ _They_ dared.” It shakes its head once, then again, as if trying to wake itself up. “ _They dared touch what is_ ours—what is _m-mine_!” Its whisper-rasp briefly cracks up almost into Petey’s smooth tenor. Then it shakes its head again, growling. “ _What is_ ours, Spider. _Do not forget our bargain_.” And its head cocks at that considering, thoughtful angle again. “I’ve forgotten nothing, _symbiote_ ,” it mumbles coldly, once more speaking with Petey’s voice.

 

“Petey?” slips out of Wade’s mouth—there’s that hope that he’d thought he couldn’t afford . . . sure took its sweet time in coming—because that _is_ his Petey’s beloved, long-missed voice. The voice Wade had, for a few years, always heard calling him back from Death’s cold, comforting embrace whenever he unalived . . . back into light and love and fucking _happiness_.

 

Back into arms that were always _warm_ and safe and loving.

 

Back to _Petey_.

 

Venom shakes its head again, sharp and final, before looking up, grinning that awful, toothy grin. Then it rises, its chilly hands settling on the backs of Wade’s before moving up to the restraints on his wrists. Wade can feel the prick of those talon-fingers and they draw beads of blood with each little pinprick-flare of pain.

 

“Ours, _Spider . . . ours_ ,” it breathes eagerly, ripping these restraints off, too, and dropping them on the ground like the worthless trash they are. Wade drops half a foot to the floor, landing on his feet, then staggering forward as his legs give out. Venom catches him before he can face-plant, with dizzying speed and effortless strength, scooping him up. It holds Wade close, bringing their faces even closer together, till its forehead is leaning against Wade’s in a familiar way. And Wade . . . shudders, because yes . . . this is _his Petey_ , somehow.

 

Petey . . . Petey came to _rescue_ him. Even after . . . _everything_.

 

Wade’s eyes well with tears and his breath hitches. “You came for me,” he whispers hoarsely.

 

 _Venom_ shudders violently and lets out a soft moan that has no hiss in it at all. Then some of that chill fades so fast, it’s as if the creature suddenly spiked a fever. Wade leans back to look at it, concerned and wary. Its mouth is working around words, the lenses of its face/mask narrowing.

 

“ _We_ . . . I . . . will always— _Wade_ . . . always come for you. . . .” it struggles out in Petey’s strained, cracking voice, its cold breath coming in pants and gasps. “Fuck . . . fuck _off_ , Venom!” it— _Petey_ growls lowly, his grasp of Wade tightening. That big, terrible hope moves through Wade’s being like a tsunami, powerful and boiling.

 

“ _Our bargain_ —”

 

“ _Fuck_ the bargain, asshole. This is _my_ time, now. _Retreat_.”

 

An angry, slow hiss, followed by Petey’s laugh, bright but brittle, as Wade watches this one-man interplay with more than a little horror.

 

“Retreat, or I’ll fucking end us both . . . and you won’t be able to stop me. Don’t test me on this, Venom,” Petey adds, in a voice that Wade’s _never_ heard from his own personal hero: flat, deadly, with nothing to lose.

 

Another hiss, this one sullen and resentful, then Venom’s face smooths out and . . . somehow, as if it has an oil slick for skin, that iridescent darkness does, in fact, retreat from a pale, gaunt face. And so fast, Wade blinks, and it’s as if his Petey just _appeared_ , his thin, fox-like features surrounded by hollows that accentuate sharp cheekbones and hazel eyes that glitter manically, intensely in the wan planes of Petey’s face. His skin is ashen, almost, and his hair, formerly a chestnut brown, is greasy, and threaded through with streaks of white.

 

“Petey!” Wade sobs, wrapping his arms around his ex-boyfriend’s neck. “Jesus!”

 

Petey hums contentedly, nuzzling Wade’s forehead before laying a gentle kiss between his eyes.

 

“Sorry I’m so late, sweetheart,” he says tenderly, turning toward the door. As he strides away, relief, towering and almost unfathomable, sweeps Wade underneath a darkness that’s velvet-soft and unimpeachably _safe_. As he’s submerged, Petey’s solemn promise follows him down, reassuring and solid, because Peter Parker’s word is his fucking _bond_. “I won’t let it— _any of it_ —happen again.”

 

#

When Wade opens his eyes, he’s nowhere familiar.

 

And _that_ , considering what’s been “familiar” to him lately, is a fucking _huge_ relief.

 

He’s sitting up and stretching, yawning till his jaw cracks loudly, then looking around him with interest. The room is indifferent, small, bare, and dimly lit. He’s lying in a comfortable bed, and there’s a desk—with a laptop, and papers scattered all over it—a chair, and a mini-fridge in a corner. Wade would almost think it’s a middling hotel, except that there’s a lived-in feel to this room that he can sense.

 

Also, the wall to his left is fucking _covered_ in maps, papers, newspaper articles, and photos, all drawn over and littered with manic marker lines connecting seemingly random bits of intel.

 

In the center of it all, is a blurry picture of Wade . . . one of the rare ones in which he’s not masked.

 

To his right is . . . Venom. Sitting hunched forward in the room’s only other chair, watching Wade with Petey’s bright eyes. But that grin . . . that _grin_ is too toothy, too _sharp_. Petey wouldn’t even _begin_ to know how to grin like _that_.

 

“Where are we?” he asks it, and its grin widens. For a few minutes, it doesn’t answer, just stares at Wade with a hungry, possessive look on its—on _Petey’s_ pretty, weary face.

 

“ _Safe_ ,” it says finally, shrugging and sitting back, so that its face is in shadows, Petey’s eyes the only light in its obscured face.

 

Wade believes it, surprisingly. If it wanted him harmed, he’d already be up Shit Creek.

 

“Where’s . . . can I see Petey?”

 

Those bright eyes narrow. “ _We have made a bargain with the Spider. We were promised what we desire_ ,” it hisses hotly, standing up in an eerily graceful way. Slow, unlike Petey’s spritely, _kinetic_ movements.

 

“And, uh . . . what is it you, uh, _desire_ . . . Venom?” Wade asks, pretty certain he’s not going to like the answer. Venom steps into the light—which is coming from the night table on the opposite side of the bed Wade’s in—that toothy grin back and bigger than ever.

 

“ _You_ ,” it whispers with a creepy sort of playfulness. “ _We desire_ you. _We were_ promised you.”

 

“Huh,” Wade says, because—what _else_ is there to say to that? Then he tries on a glib smile. “So, you, uh . . . need my services, huh? Who do ya want dead, V-man?”

 

“ _We kill whomever we want, whenever we want. We need no help from another to take life_ ,” it says matter-of-factly, approaching the bed until it looms over Wade for real, this time. Its eyes— _Petey’s eyes_ —are mad in that too-pale, too-tired, too-young face. “ _We have no need for the mercenary, Deadpool_.”

 

Now, Wade is _really_ confused. “Then, what, uh, whaddaya want from m—” he falls silent as it darts out, snake-quick, to pinch Wade’s chin between its sharp thumb and index finger. It leans down close, its Looney-Tunes-but-deadly gaze boring into Wade’s.

 

“ _We want_ Wade Wilson _. We want_ our mate _back_.” It leans in further until Wade blinks and feels its cold nose against his own. “ _We_ want you.”

 

And, yeah, sometimes Wade _can_ be slow on the uptake, but he can’t deny where this is going. Where he’d known it was going since the damn lab, when Venom had touched him as gently as such a creature must’ve been able to.

 

This is . . . not good.

 

“Petey,” Wade breathes urgently. “If you can hear me in there . . . ya gotta fight your way back out again. I _know_ you can,” he adds as Venom licks him for a second time, its long— _long_ , like, holy _shit_ , _long_ —tongue sliding across Wade’s cheek, to his ear. “ _Fight it_ , Baby Boy!”

 

Suddenly the hand that had been holding Wade’s face is clenching around his throat tight and he’s being shaken like a ragdoll.

 

“Ours, _Wade Wilson_ ,” Venom insists. All Wade can see is that bright, buzzing hazel. “ _The Spider threw you away because he did not recognize the value of keeping a mate such as_ you _. Be_ we _recognize_. _We_ see. _We_ want. _And we will_ have.”

 

“Please—” Wade mouths as the room starts to spin and go grey at the edges. Then black. Then . . . then he’s thrown down to the bed, where he’s left to gasp air back into his lungs as the blood rushes back into his head. Dizzy, he rolls onto his side with a weak moan, barely noticing when cold, _cold_ talons roll him onto his stomach.

 

He does, however, notice when his ankles are grabbed in an iron-grip and he’s dragged a short ways down the bed. “The fuck?!” explodes out of him on one panting exhalation. The springs of the bed squeak as a weight lands on the bed with Wade—then cold knees are spreading his thighs wide and that iron-grip catches his left wrist, wrenching it up behind him and pinning it high up against his back. Wade cries out from the pain of it just before the other hand pushes his head into the pillow face first, barely leaving him a moment to gasp in a still very-much-needed breath.

 

For long moments, nothing happens, other than Wade’s once more futile struggles—he couldn’t fight his way out of a spidey-strength grip _before_ Petey had this _thing_ possessing him. Now . . . now Wade knows he's well and truly _fucked_.

 

 _Literally_ , he thinks as that cold, wet tongue licks up his right thigh, slow and rasping in a way that turns Wade’s crank as much as it repulses him. Because it’s _Petey_. . . .

 

But it’s _not_.

 

He can feel Venom’s harsh, chilly breaths on the crease between his leg and his ass . . . then on his right cheek. Then, that tongue is slithering its way between his cheeks, to his asshole, not stopping to tease, or for the tight ring of guardian muscle in its way. It simply shoves its impossibly long, inhumanly _wide_ tongue up Wade’s ass hard enough and suddenly enough that Wade groans into the pillow as Venom invades him without preamble.

 

He wriggles around, helpless, hopeless again, but still not willing to go down without some kind of fight. But the wriggling only seems to force Venom’s tongue deeper _faster_ , causing Wade to spasm around the freak-show appendage.

 

Venom’s making an odd, breathless sound that might be a chuckle, and its talon-hand eases up on Wade’s head just enough that Wade can bob up a little and gulp some oxygen.

 

 _Fuck you, pal_ , Wade tries to say—but can’t—as that tongue seems to makes its way practically to his goddamn _colon_. But clearly it hasn’t gone quite _that_ far, yet, because it slimes its way across Wade’s prostate, slow and teasing.

 

Wade’s groans and grunts become _groans and grunts_ as Venom licks his prostate repeatedly, sometimes hard and rasping, sometimes light and ticklish. His struggles slow as his dick gets hard and attempts to stand up. It’s been well-trained to get hard whenever it’s within, oh, a thousand miles of Petey’s body and neither of them are in imminent danger of being unalived. So. . . .

 

 _Oh,_ fuck _, no . . . this is_ not _happening . . . not now . . . not like_ this _. . . ._

_Not_ again _._

 

Wade’s struggles intensify once more, and for a few moments, after Venom’s tongue slurps its way out of him, leaving him shaking and empty in a way he tries not to focus on, he thinks: _Hey, it worked! Pathetic flailing for the WIN!_

 

But Venom doesn’t let him up or let him go. Instead, the creature, inexplicably, places an almost tender kiss at the small of Wade’s back.

 

 _The_ fuck—is all Wade has time to think before something thicker than Venom’s tongue—but a lot drier—prods at his ass, poking forcefully between his cheeks, then past the somewhat _loosened_ but not remotely _stretched_ guardian muscle. Venom drives its cock, as cold as the rest of it, deep into Wade’s body in one icy, burning riptide of agony. Wade yowls, tears spring to his eyes as Venom hisses that soundless, chuffing laughter, otherwise still for a few moments, before pulling out and nearly taking some of Wade’s internal organs with it, from the feel. Then it thrusts in again hard, driving another yell from Wade’s raw throat.

 

Venom sets up a punishing pace—nothing like _Petey’s_ slow love-making, or even his weirdly Dom-y, insanely _hot_ style of hardcore _fucking_ —pistoning into Wade like a machine, eerily silent behind him.

 

And so it goes for a _long_ time. Wade loses track . . . starts to drift. . . .

 

Then, whether through miracle, accident, or plan, Venom swivels its hips in a way that’s _very_ familiar, and that cold, hard cock splitting Wade like a cord of wood, hits his prostate like a battering ram. Wade is yelling again, his surprised pleasure giving him enough strength to get his face well out of the pillow. His wilting erection almost instantly does a one-eighty.

 

“ _God, Petey_!” he wails desperately as Venom continues fucking him and beating his prostate like a Salvation Army drum. Its sporadic, chuffing laughter cuts off like its throat’s been slashed, and the hand that’d been more resting on Wade’s head than holding it into the pillow, for the past little while, is on the back of his neck, tight with warning. Those talons prick Wade’s neck until blood runs down it and drips into the pillow.

 

Even _that_ , to Wade’s rapidly submerged dismay, makes him harder.

 

“ _Ours_ ,” Venom hisses in his ear, its cold body pressed all along Wade’s now. The hand pinning his arm yanks it up a little higher, wrenching it almost out of its socket. Wade grunts, leans into the pain, and lets it mingle with the pleasure radiating from his ass, to the rest of him.

 

“ _You are ours, Wade Wilson_.” Venom’s tongue licks along Wade’s neck, blood and saliva mixing, smearing, spreading. Venom’s thrusts speed up, become erratic, but lose none of their power. In fact, they seem to _gain_ power, coming harder and harder, till Wade can feel himself tearing a little . . . then a little more . . . then a _lot_ , until thin rills of blood run out of him to drip down his thighs, to the sheets. “Ours _. . . and you will call us by name_.”

 

“That’s— _fuck_!—some dream-world . . . you live in, Bubba,” Wade pants out defiantly, even laughing as his damaged, traitor-body pushes back to meet each thrust because even though it’s not _Petey_ —and it’s really _not_ —it kind of still _is_.

 

Because, let’s face it, Venom wouldn’t know—or care—how to find Wade’s spot with a hand-drawn map and a flashlight . . . Wade _knows_ that. That little hip-swivel, that unexpected bit of concern for Wade’s enjoyment, had been _Petey_.

 

Just the thought of Petey fucking him bloody is enough to make Wade’s body stiffen and his balls draw up—even as his heart breaks—then, with a drawn-out groan, he comes in the messy sheets beneath him. Venom makes a strangled, surprised sound, the pistoning of its hips stuttering, slowing, as Wade’s muscles contract around its cock. It manages another three, four thrusts, hard and slow, before its coming, too, thick and cold in Wade’s clenching body, a strange cry torn from its throat that sounds more like Petey than it doesn’t.

 

“Oh . . . oh,” Wade whimpers, as his orgasm fades . . . only for a second, less sharp, more diffuse, more _intense_ one to follow it. This time, Wade can’t even groan, only gasp desperately, hands clawing the sheets as he comes again, several long, thin, burning pulses shooting from his over-sensitive cock.

 

When it’s over, he goes limp, Venom collapsing on top of him heavily, breathing just as hard. Its body isn’t by any stretch _warm_ , but it’s certainly warmer than it _had_ been. It’s downright cool.

 

Wade is weak and numb, sweating and aching. He can feel a mix of blood, spit, and come drooling out of his torn asshole as Venom shifts just enough that his still half-hard cock slides out.

 

Once it does, Wade aches worse than ever—it’s actually kind of agonizing—and feels indescribably empty and lost.

 

He doesn’t even realize he’s weeping until Venom rolls off him, to the side, and Wade’s chest hitches and heaves, a soft sob hiccupping out of him.

 

He buries his face in the pillow, arms covering his head in a primal bid for safety and darkness.

 

He can’t remember the last time he was raped—at least not _clearly_ —but there’re a lot of things about the Weapon X Program that Wade’s conveniently forgotten. Things that had been done to make him mutate. To make him bend. To make him _break_. Things that White remembers, but keeps to itself and that Yellow pretends never happened. But one thing Wade _does_ remember is swearing he’d _never_ let it happen to him again.

 

So much for keeping his fucking word.

 

Which, really, doesn’t even bother Wade _that_ much, because he’s never been good at keeping his word—well, except to Vanessa . . . and then Petey . . . the only people who’d ever fucking _mattered_ and to whom _he’d_ mattered—even to _himself_ ; no. It’s the fact that it was _Petey_ who’d helped him break his word to himself. Petey had . . . _raped_ —

 

 _No_ , Wade tells himself frantically, trying to keep what passes for his sanity from crumbling. _That_ wasn’t _Petey. That was fucking_ Venom _. It_ used _me and it used_ Petey _for its own ends. Its own pleasure. Petey would_ never _do that to me._

 

Only . . . Petey kind of _had_ , hadn’t he? It’d been _Petey_ fucking him as much as it had been Venom. _Petey_ who’d gotten Wade hard despite himself. _Petey_ who’d made Wade . . . _enjoy_ it.

 

Petey. . . .

 

Wade shudders, more tears leaking into the sodden pillow, his body still shaking from the aftermath of two orgasms, the pain of his injuries and the burn of healing, and from the welter of emotions he can’t even _begin_ to sort through, just as he can’t seem to let it go.

 

A talon-hand settles on his shoulder and he shudders again.

 

“Wade?”

 

Petey’s voice, soft with concern, shaking with horror.

 

“Sweetheart, _please_ ,” Petey moans wetly, sniffling. “I—I couldn’t _stop_ it, only . . . only find a way to make it hurt you _less_. I couldn’t _bear_ watching it use and hurt you, so I just . . . I tried to make it _good_ for you.”

 

Wade shakes his head, pressing his face into the pillow hard for a hot minute. Then he sits up just enough to be understood when he speaks.

 

“Can you . . . just . . . _not_ touch me, right now, Peter?” he asks wearily, his exhausted, weak, gone-frail body unable to support much in the way of hysteria or panic or any kind of dramatic emotion. He just . . . doesn’t want Petey . . . _Peter_ . . . or Venom touching him for a while.

 

Peter’s hand slides away reluctantly.

 

“I thought I could _control_ it, Wade . . . that’s the only reason I let it in. The only reason I _kept_ it.” Peter sighs heavily, sounding at least as tired as Wade. “So it couldn’t infect anyone else. Someone . . . who maybe couldn’t resist it _at all_.”

 

In spite of himself, Wade shifts his leaden body, turns his head so he can look at Peter. Peter is laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with wide, devastated eyes, his hands linked together and resting on his abdomen, his Adam’s apple bobbing ceaselessly. Like he’s trying not to cry. Or scream.

 

“What . . . what _is_ it?” Wade asks hesitantly. Peter’s eyes close tight.

 

“It’s . . . a long story. One I can tell you in detail later, if you want. Suffice it to say, Venom is a symbiote. Not from Earth. It tries to bond and meld with its . . . host. _Control_ it. And it’s not a good _or_ nice being with shiny intentions.”

 

Wade snorts. “Yeah. Kinda sussed that out for myself, thanks.”

 

He turns his face back into the pillow for a few minutes. Then he rolls onto his other side, facing the chair Venom had sat in.

 

“What exactly did you promise it?” he asks, almost unwillingly. “In return for helping you find me, I mean.”

 

“I didn’t promise it that it could _rape_ _you_ , Wade . . . I _swear_! Fuckin’ piece of shit, scumbag, skidmark _parasite_ ,” Peter grits out angrily, mostly to himself. Rather, to _Venom_. Wade curls into fetal position, because what the hell, why _not_? Fetal position seems to go with the themes of his life, lately: helplessness and suffering. “I promised it that I'd . . . do what we _both_ wanted and . . . win you back. See, it—I let it infect me last year to try and contain it, like I said, but that plan kinda backfired. Blew up in my fucking face. Because it didn’t wanna kill and wreak havoc anymore—well, not as _much_ —it wanted one thing and one thing only. _You_. And the longer I was with you, the _stronger_ it became. The more _insistent_. The more it . . . tried to _control_ me . . . make me do things to you that I didn’t _wanna_ do.” Here, Peter pauses, sounding uncertain about that last part. Wade closes his eyes on more tears. “Things that would’ve hurt you _bad_ , Wade.

 

“Worse, even, then what it . . . what _we_ did to you tonight,” Peter admits lowly.

 

“Jesus, Peter,” Wade whispers, then falls silent for a while, just letting stinging tears squeeze out of his closed eyes and roll down his face. A few times, he senses Peter’s hand hovering over his arm . . . but each time, thankfully—regretfully?—it backs off.

 

“ _That’s_ why I left you, Wade,” Peter exhales finally, his voice shaking once more. “I was lying when I said I didn’t love you anymore. Lying through my damn _teeth_. I had to get you _away_ from me—had to keep you _safe_. Keep it away from you. It’s . . . _insane_. It thinks you’re its . . . destined mate.”

 

“And I thought you were mine,” falls unbidden from Wade’s numb, bitten lips, rueful and accusing.

 

Peter takes a breath that also shakes. “I may not be your destined mate anymore, Wade. After tonight . . . after the past _year_ , I can understand if I’m not. But I’ll always be _yours_. _Always_. And I’ll scrag Venom _and_ myself before I ever— _ever_ let it hurt you like this again. You _hear_ me, asshole. I. Will. _End us_.”

 

That flat, nothing-left-to-lose voice again, deadly and emotionless. The voice of a man on the edge of sanity. On the edge of life and death. Wade feels a pang in his chest, so sharp it steals his breath for several moments. It isn’t for himself, but for _his Petey_ . . . his precious Baby Boy, who’d been lost to him, leaving _Peter_ and _Venom_ in his place.

 

“I’ve never loved anyone like I love _you_ , Wade Wilson. This past year, that love has grown into an obsession I _can’t_ fight anymore. Not if I’m fighting _Venom_ at the same time. At least when I’m here . . . _near_ _you_ , I can focus on something other than my own selfish _need_ for you. I can focus on _containment_.”

 

“You’ve done a bang-up job of containing it, so far!” Wade laughs a bit hysterically, opening his eyes and rolling onto his back, too. He stares up at the water damage on the ceiling and doesn’t break the guilt-ridden silence again till he’s found a turtle and Pikachu in the brown water-stains. “Fuck, Peter . . . there’s gotta be a way to get rid of it without unaliving _yourself_.”

 

Peter doesn’t answer for so long Wade looks over at him. Finds the other man still brooding up at the ceiling. Finally, Peter shrugs carelessly.

 

“I’m not afraid of dying,” he says calmly, turning his head to face Wade, his weary face strangely peaceful. “I’m so—” he laughs that brittle laugh and it seems to echo emptily in the bare room. “ _Fuck_ , I’m tired, Wade. I don’t sleep, I barely eat, can’t hear myself think most of the time—can’t tell, sometimes, where I end and Venom begins . . . not to mention all the Hydra agents I’ve tortured and killed over the past four months trying to find you.” Peter’s eyes are shining more than usual and when he blinks, tears run down his pale, sharp cheeks. He looks up at the ceiling again, Adam’s apple bobbing once more. “At least Venom had a blast, even if I didn’t . . . and all of that is more than enough reason for me to wonder if . . . maybe it’s time for the both of us to just not be here, anymore. Make the world a better place by leaving it, y’know?”

 

Wade sighs. “Peter—”

 

“I’m _losing_ , Wade. Slowly, but surely. Losing my grip on sanity and losing the moral high-ground . . . losing my conscience.” Peter sighs, too. “Losing the _fight_. Venom will _win_ . . . it won’t be long, now.”

 

“Have you tried going to the Avengers? Banner and Stark—”

 

“I don’t trust Stark not to try and play around with Venom, and make things worse, somehow,” Peter says firmly. “And Banner hasn’t been in contact or seen for the past nine months. Not since the Code Green in Grenada went FUBAR.”

 

“Fuck,” Wade breathes, automatically reaching out to Peter, in response to the despair in his voice. Before he can think better of it, he’s pulling the other man into his arms, never minding the cold of Venom covering his too-thin body. Peter begins to shake violently, dissolving into hoarse, hard sobs so deep, Wade quickly grows frightened for him.

 

“Peter? _Petey_?” he rocks the quaking body in his arms, his face buried in Peter’s messy, noticeably damp, greasy hair. It and he don’t smell particularly nice, Wade notices—like blood, burning, and B.O. that’s just starting to get truly _gnarly_ —but then, neither does _he_.

 

Fuck, _we’re a mess_ , he thinks, crooning nonsense at Peter. Then, for some reason, the _Chilly Willy the Penguin_ theme-song. He and Petey used to watch that show when they were stoned and giggle till their faces hurt and they had to pee. . . .

 

“I’m so _tired_ , Wade . . . it takes so much out of me to fight and—and I can’t keep it up anymore. And I still _love_ _you_ and it hurts _so bad_ that you _hate_ me, now. Because I was _better_ when I was with you . . . stronger and _happy_. Now, I’m just weak, weak, _weak_ . . . and going insane. I’m becoming like Venom . . . we’re starting to . . . to _meld_.” Peter clutches at Wade’s shoulder hard, those talon-fingers puncturing skin and muscle. But Wade doesn’t notice the pain.

 

“No, you’re not,” he says, only half-certain that he’s not telling one whopper of a lie. Maybe even less certain than _that_. But it’s what Peter needs to _hear_ to keep on _fighting_ , and Wade is obliged to say it. “You can _fight_ this thing till we find an answer that does _not_ require _your_ death, as well.”

 

Peter sniffles and looks up at Wade with red, swollen eyes in dark-grey circles. Wade is momentarily struck by how _unwell_ Peter looks. How . . . miserable and _unstable_. It’s as if some restricting band around his heart tightens . . . then loosens and falls away like it’d never been.

 

“You,” Peter wipes at his runny nose impatiently. “You said . . . _we_?”

 

Wade shrugs at the hopeful question in Peter’s raw voice. “Yeah . . . you think I’m gonna let you and Venom go tear-assing around _my planet_ , killing and maiming and having _all_ the fun? _Fuck_ , no!” Snorting, Wade urges Peter to tuck his head under his chin and continues rocking them both. “If there’s anyone on this shit-heap world that can maybe help us contain _Senor Date-Rape_ in a vessel that’s _not_ _you_ , it’s Banner, I figure. So our first move, is to find Mean Green and get him to help us.”

 

“Yeah, _right_. Banner’s like Houdini. He can disappear so fast and so well, _no one_ can find him, except maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. . . . you know, back when that was a thing.” Peter takes a deep breath that immediately comes whistling back out through his nose. “And knowing Banner . . . he’d probably wanna bring in Stark.”

 

“Not necessarily. . . .”

 

“Have you _seen_ the way they look at each other when they’re together and not science-ing the shit out of something? They eye-fuck each other more than any two people I’ve _ever_ seen. And that _includes_ you and me, back in the day,” Peter adds dryly. Wade smiles. Then laughs a little.

 

“You used to look at me a certain way, sometimes—just meet my eyes from across a crowded room—and I’d pop a stiffy so fast, the blood rush made me dizzy.”

 

Peter laughs, too, between now-sporadic sobs. “I know. I did that on purpose.”

 

“I _know_ you did. And I _liked_ it.”

 

Peter smiles on Wade’s neck. For a moment, anyway. “So, uh . . . what happens, now?”

 

“Well,” Wade says, temporizing. Then his brain kicks into gear for the first time in months. The Boxes come back online with a crackle and hiss, like a television or radio station tuning in.

 

{First thing we do, is find some more Hydra fucks to unalive while we look for Banner: two birds, one stone,} Yellow says with its usual glee and murderous intent.

 

[ _No_ ,] White says patiently, reasonably. [ _First_ , we rest, then bathe, then eat. Neither we nor Peter are in any shape to do much until we recover some. That’s our _first_ priority. And then—]

 

{ _Then_ we kill some more Hydra fucks while we look for Banner?} Yellow’s excitement is bleeding into Wade, and even into _White_. But the calmer Box merely sighs.

 

[If we _must_. If you _wish_ ,] White amends when Yellow begins to pout. [In the meantime, we _must_ take care of ourselves . . . and of _Peter_.]

 

{Fuckin’-A! We _always_ take care of Petey-pants! We’re gonna kick Venom’s oil slick-ass out of our boy _for_ _good_ , once we find Banner. Till then, we’re on red-fucking-alert.}

 

[So very melodramatic,] White laments quietly, and Wade tunes out on Yellow’s strident rejoinder and the argument that follows thereafter.

 

“First thing we do is rest and recupe, Baby Boy,” he tells Peter, not noticing the slip, though he _does_ notice the way Peter stiffens in surprise, and wonders why. But then Peter relaxes and Wade goes on. “Maybe get some bath-bombs and soak for, like, three days straight, ‘cause we _reek_. Especially _you_.”

 

“Your _face_ reeks,” Peter replies in a pouty, mumble-y grumble, _ala_ kindergarten, and Wade huffs haughtily, but he’s smiling.

 

“Be that as it may, I think we’ve _both_ earned a little rest. For a _few_ days, anyway. Then, we track down Banner and solve the problem of your . . . dark half. _Together_. Sound good?”

 

Peter sighs almost happily, settling in Wade’s arms, his body almost at room temperature. “Sounds better than _good_ , Wade. Sounds like a _plan_.”

 

“I’m glad you approve. Now,” Wade allows himself to kiss Peter’s pale forehead before nuzzling Peter’s greasy hair. “Close those tired eyes and I’ll keep watch while you sleep and make sure Venom stays in its cage.”

 

“Th-thank you, Wade,” Peter whispers shakily. And in minutes, his body is limp and loose in Wade’s embrace, his slumber so profoundly deep— _How long has it been since he last slept? Days? Weeks?_ Months? Wade wonders, his heart hurting—Wade doubts anything short of TNT could blast him out of sleep.

 

Wade keeps watch through the rest of the night and well into the morning, squinting his own tired eyes against sun’s light since he can’t reach the blinds to close them.

 

Every so often, that oily, slightly iridescent black sheen flares and flickers—tries to _slide_ over Peter’s features, briefly obscuring them.

 

“I’m here, Peter. You’re safe. _Sleep_ ,” Wade murmurs at those times. Then, in a _very_ different tone: “You’d better _stay_ under, asshole, because if you hurt my boy again, I’ll make _sure_ that when we find Banner, he puts a hurt on you so bad, you’ll _beg_ for death.”

 

The oily sheen instantly subsides and Peter doesn’t so much as stir.

 

Wade sighs in relief, softly, wearily— _hopelessly_ , but _still_ ready to fight for his boy, nonetheless—and continues his mostly silent vigil.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Person A being held hostage in a fortress and Person B violently leaving a mess of carnage in their wake in order to get to them. Covered in blood and questionable pieces of enemy remains, Person B finally makes it to Person A in the center of the wreckage and gives them a gentle peck on the forehead before apologizing for the wait.
> 
> Darker than my general/usual fare, but I'm proud of this piece. Wanna see what happens when they catch up with Bruce? Lemme know!
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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